


~ Balefire ~

by Spiced_Wine



Series: Northern Lights [12]
Category: Multi-Fandom, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dark Prince ‘verse, M/M, Summerland ‘verse, mention of drug use, use of the f word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-24 00:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18159113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: Vanimórë travels to Sören’s Earth for one night to see if he can light a beacon-fire.





	~ Balefire ~

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verhalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Chains Of Eternity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18070109) by [verhalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen/pseuds/verhalen). 
  * Inspired by [Chains Of Eternity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18070109) by [verhalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen/pseuds/verhalen). 



> ‘Balefire’ is an old English word for a bonfire or beacon fire. In this context, Vanimórë believes Maglor might feel, somehow, that he had been with Sören.  
>   
> This fic is a crossover between the Dark Prince ‘verse, the ‘Summerland’ ‘verse and Verhalen’s ‘Chains of Eternity’.  
>   
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/18070109/chapters/42709418  
>   
> This is a little gift-fic for Verhalen, specifically referencing Chapter 5. Dancers in the Darkness, where Sören meets Vanimórë.  
>   
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/18070109/chapters/42887018  
>   
> I do not intent to rewrite their incredible sex scene Verhalen, as phew! Just a few thoughts from Vanimórë’s POV.  
>   
> 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**~Balefire ~**

 

 

 

 

~ ‘So.’ He sat on the couch, folded his legs like a Harad tribesman. ‘A question.’

His father tilted an elegant brow. ‘Yes? You did not merely come to enliven my day?’

Vanimórë showed his teeth. ‘Hardly.’

‘Such a pity.’ Sauron set aside the sheaf of parchment. ‘Well?’

‘Thou wert so certain I would never die,’ Vanimórë said slowly. ‘That thou wouldst always have a way back into the world even if thou wert decisively destroyed. Why? I could die like any man.’

‘Well, not quite as easily as any man.’ His father’s mouth curved to one side. ‘You always healed quickly. Even after Melkor had you.’

Vanimórë stared back at him. ‘Even so. Thou couldn’t not rely on that. But there was my sister, was there not? Sent out to roam the Earth. Didst thou think to use her, if I was dead and gone?’

Sauron’s expression stilled. Then he said, full and definite. ‘No.’

‘Why not? She is blood.’

‘The blood-link is important, my beautiful darkness, but the bond matters more. There is none between Vanya and I.’ Then he blazed a charming smile. ‘Not like we two.’

‘Indeed.’ Dryly. ‘But it could work, especially as she is now?’

‘Anything is possible, but some things are unlikely. Especially as her powers are disseminated across the worlds. Yes, she is powerful in her true form but her power, by its very nature, would reject me. Why do you ask?’

Vanimórë kept his face composed. ‘Taking a great risk, wert thou not?’

‘Or merely I had a great deal of faith.’ Sauron traced a finger down Vanimórë’s face. ‘And events have proven me right, have they not?’

‘In this reality, at least.’ Vanimórë did not move, walls up, thinking.

‘Ah well, yes.’ His father sat back. ‘Who can tell what may have happened in others?’

Straight-faced, Vanimórë said: ‘Who indeed?’

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

_Nemrúshkeraz, I need thee to remember something for me._

It irritated Vanimórë intensely that he had to leave so much of himself behind when he passed through the Portal, not only power, but some of the knowledge he learned while looking in it.

There was no remedy for that, he had decided, unless he wished to step into those other worlds in all the fullness of his power. The time might come when a situation demanded it, but if so that time was not yet. And so, he had to work around the inconveniences, by speaking to those who were there, Vanya, or Coldagnir, or Edenel, who could then tell him what he had forgotten. It was awkward, frustrating, but it was the only way.

He would not disturb Edenel while he told his tale to Claire, and so he reached for Coldagnir.

 _Yes_? Sun-fire and the power at the heart of a star.

Vanimórë came to the Portal. Only Fëanor and Elgalad (of those in the Timeless Halls) knew where it was now, in this thought-construct of a garden that might have come directly from Sud Sicanna when he ruled as its prince, or Pashaar of the Imperium: Urns spilling hot-coloured, flowers, vine-covered trellises, fountains, shady little arbours where one could sit and sip chilled wine.

 _I have made a mistake,_ he said into Coldagnir’s awareness. _A serious one._

 _What_?

_My father says he could not have found a way back into the world by using Vanya as the link. There is no bond there, and her power is either too disseminated, or would reject him when drawn together into one being._

There was a tiny pause, then: _Thou didst not know, Vanimórë._

 _I must have known. I wanted to think it was otherwise because in that world, I am long dead. But it was_ my _presence that Sauron felt, not my sister’s. I,_ he continued in rising fury, _put Claire in danger, and Maglor too. It is unconscionable._

_Thou art not responsible for what Sauron does, Vanimórë._

_I am now,_ Vanimórë responded tartly. _Because now I can control him. Except I can only do so here, not when I set foot in any other timeline because I cannot be myself. I can only be as I was before my apotheosis_.

Coldagnir said, a smile in his voice: _The Dark Prince. Who survived Melkor and killed Balrogs in the fighting pits of Angband. Who defeated all sent against him in the arenas of Númenor. Who took Sud Sicanna from the rule of a child-killer simply because he felt like it and sat on its throne for nigh a thousand years. Who refused to allow Dana-Ungoliant or Melkor or Sauron or the Mouth or anything he was subjected to, to destroy his passion. Who brought the Silmaril of the Ocean from the deeps of the Great Sea. Who walked into Fos Almir knowing it might destroy him. That man is hardly negligible._

_And he is still an idiot._

Coldagnir’s tone deepened; hidden laughter, a caress like heat. _No, merely impulsive, and that comes directly from thy grandsire. Thou didst wish to ensure Maglor was no longer lonely. The intent was pure._

_I appreciate that thou art trying to make me feel better, Nemrúshkeraz, Aelios, Urphiel, but it is not working._

_It is done, now._

_Yes._ He exhaled. _It is done, and I do not regret that it is done. I regret that it was I who allowed Sauron to return to the world. I should have thought._

 _Unless thou wouldst meddle again, and go back and change everything, thou must needs accept it._ A faint question.

Vanimórë drew the ring taken in Venice from where it was tucked against his skin. He turned it in his fingers. Frowned.  
_I could do that, but —_

 _Thine heart will ever overrule thy head,_ Coldagnir said softly. _And with the power that thou hast, now, it is no great fault. Thou must find the balance._ All the amusement had faded into seriousness. Balance? Vanimórë feared he would never find that. All those things Coldagnir had enumerated, save the arena fights in decaying Númenor, had been born out of impulse or sheer bloody-minded stubbornness. None had been coldly, coolly planned. Only in war and rule did he create plans; if something touched him personally, evoked sympathy or love or hate or rage, he did indeed follow his heart.

He closed his hand over the ring, felt its smooth edges press into his palm. Not a Great Ring, but enough of Sauron’s power in it to poison a young, suggestible mind. It was not, either, new. The script on the inside of the gold loop had been worn down by many years of rubbing against skin.

_It is an heirloom, then, worn by another and passed on._

He had been so intent on the fact of the One Ring having survived, he had not considered that his father might create new ones. But why would he not? It was, as one might say, a tried and tested method of control. He sat back against the stone bench, watching the interplay of light that was the Portal: time and possibility and power.

What to do with this ring. On many worlds  
it would be dangerous. Not here. No-one in the Timeless Halls was susceptible. The safest option would be to simply destroy it, watch the gold melt and run across his fingers, blow the dust of it away into nothingness. Or...he paused, might it be used as a lure. Sauron would know his follower was dead, but little else. Howard’s people would have lifted a few fingers and ensured that nothing was released to the public. Someone might come in the guise of a relative, a friend (doubtful that he had close family) but no ring would have been found on the corpse. And the young man’s identity would be traced and found; he could trust Howard and his colleagues to discover that.

A breath of spring, cool air, perfume like rainflowers. Vanimórë tucked the ring back into the inside pocket of his tunic where it lay invisible against his skin.

‘Is anything wrong?’ Elgalad asked.

‘I have discovered that Sauron could not have returned to Claire’s Earth had I not been there.’

Elgalad stood before the Portal. The illusionary sun stuck metallic off silver hair as he turned.  
‘Thou knowest that absolutely?’

‘I have not looked, but it does make sense. Vanya’s spirit went out through all the worlds there are. In that reality,’ he gestured to the Portal, ‘many thousands of years ago. And yet it was only when I began to spend time there, that I sensed him. Vanya never did. She said she never looked. Yes, it must have taken him a couple of decades from when I set foot there, but what is that to him? Nothing.’

Elgalad came to him, leaned his brow against Vanimórë’s. ‘Thou wouldst have done it regardless.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Definitely,’ Elgalad corrected.

‘I am just imagining,’ Vanimórë mused, ‘the satisfaction to be had in going back then and there and punching myself in the face.’

Elgalad stood back, smiled at him. ‘That would be a fight to remember, I warrant.’

‘Do not tempt me.’ He drew a bottle of sparkling wine from a bowl of ice and poured two goblets. “But when I think of the trauma and fear Claire went through, I find if hard to forgive myself.’

‘Perhaps that is not for thee to do.’

‘Thou art right, it is for her to forgive, and Maglor also. And since _this_ Maglor has never forgiven me, I doubt _he_ will.’ He sipped the crisp dryness, bubbles breaking in his tongue.  
‘He is very much the same man.’

‘I cannot imagine the Fëanorions being anything other than Fëanorion whichever reality they may inhabit.’ Elgalad turned back to the portal. ‘Like the Maglor in this one.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Vanimórë joined him, lightly strummed his fingers across the glittering surface until the notes of the Great Music matched the world he sought for.

Visions: A stern, beautiful land of mountains, glaciers, black sand beaches, the eldritch green glimmer of the Aurora Borealis. Maglor and a beautiful young man named Sören, meeting, making love, travelling, breaking up in tears and passion. Anger and devastation on Sören’s part, heartbreak on Maglor’s. It was a situation that confronted any immoral in a Mortal world, the danger of becoming close and having to walk away before their unaging lives became noted. It would happen in any universe where immortals must needs hide in plain sight. And for all one might vow never to get involved, such a promise was almost impossible to keep. Perhaps for someone like Sauron, but for a Fëanorion, birthed from fire, and one so alone...?  
  
Maglor took his hurt West oversea to Alaska. Sören remained in Iceland, trying to live some kind of life but hollowed out, falling into depression, unable to peruse his art, clubbing, dating, a succession of unsatisfying nights that were nothing but quick, empty sex. Vanimórë frowned. He was worth so much more than that, but even as he understood Sören’s desperate attempts to _feel_ something, anything, he understood Maglor. He himself had sent Elgalad away, for the same reasons, but the resulting anguish was the same for both of them.  
  
‘It is a difficult world, that one,’ he said. ‘Very similar to Claire’s, in that any kind of power, magic, is believed to be the result of delusion, or a lingering and archaic magical thinking. A very few thousand people are born with power on Sören’s Earth, and quite rightly, they keep it secret. But Sören has Elvenblood, it is even a tradition in his family, and he is not _normal_. It shows in his art, and his looks. And there is a great deal more to it than that...his parents...’ He closed his mouth. ‘He needs to be woken to it. But this I will say: His future is nothing like he imagines it will be.’  
  
Elgalad looked art him. ‘Really?’  
  
‘Really,’ Vanimórë replied, briefly smiling. ‘But he is directionless at this moment. His life is empty. A little nudge might be of use.’ _And a little something else._ Unfortunate that dark-coloured contact lenses lasted no longer than four hours.  
‘I think I am going to light a beacon-fire, my dear,’  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 

It was easy enough to pick up the threads in this world, (Vanimórë now thought of it as hacking into a super-computer) to ensure the hotel reminded him of the club Sören would be in that night, a place for meeting and dancing and sometimes finding one or more partners to fill the hours before daylight.

It was not Vanimórë’s usual milieu, simply because he tended to keep himself to himself, and was too conscious of his own attitude toward being used for sex to wish to use anyone else. There had always been a connection between he and his lovers that went beyond the mechanics of the body, even if some of those connections were so complex they vanished into a dark knot that he did not wish to unravel. But strange territory or no, he felt no unease. There would be dancing. Well, that presented no particular challenge, and the audience would be somewhat less...lethal than he was accustomed to.

When he danced for Melkor it ended with rape; when he performed for Sauron it was dance of death, spinning down a line of bound prisoners and opening their throats with his swords. Compared to that a dance club was tame as afternoon tea: No Balrogs, no Fell-wolves, no orcs or trolls, no monsters such as Thuringwethil. (Or not here and now) Mortals could be vile enough, but those, even the most dangerous, were easily dealt with (and had been) — though he had wondered, long ago on Claire’s Earth, what would happen if he died. It was possible, with the weapons they used. And so, in the Timeless Halls he had communed with himself, with the Overmind, and found that because so much of himself was left behind, he would simply be recreated again in the Timeless Halls. But having someone who was dead reappear in the same world, would be...tricky, and so he tried to avoid being killed.

But for his clothes, which were a variant of his usual leather gear, he might have been preparing to dance before Melkor: eyes smoky, lips tinted black. He had glamoured himself, as he did on Claire’s world, to lessen the truth of what he was, and wove a few braids in his hair. At the last moment, he placed the coloured contact lenses over the purple of his eyes, shadowing them dark brown.

He glanced around the room before he left. It was prepared for Sören’s acceptance, although the condoms were a needless nod to the concerns of this world. Vanimórë carried no diseases, neither could he transmit any. But here, no sensible man would have sex without protection unless he and his partner had been tested, and so Vanimórë would adhere to the rules. Protection or no, he meant to give Sören, if not what he wanted, what he needed: to be desired, pleasured, cared for — to be treated as a rare and precious individual. Which he was, but did not feel like at this time.

Dance music boomed against the walls, lights flickered and flashed, outlining the dancers in rays. There was the smell of alcohol and cologne and hot bodies. Vanimórë wove easily through the crowd collecting looks for his height and hair, and ordered a red wine at the bar. As he sipped, he let his senses spread through the club. Sören was not here yet. He fended off a few approaches, some cautious, others bold with drink or drugs until, half an hour later, he saw Sören enter dressed in a ruffled white shirt, black leather pants and vest. He looked gorgeous, though his face too pale under a tumble of glossy curls, and his eyes mourned an unhealed wound.

He greeted two men, one husky, sporting a reddish beard, the other slimmer, with a neat goatee. Although Sören was subtle, Vanimórë guessed he took a tab of E a short time later. A pity, as it only underscored the effort he was making to be normal, to enjoy himself, but nothing to be overly concerned about. In the late 1980’s, Vanimórë had spent eighteen months as an apparent derelict in the no-lands beyond the brutal shadows of Trellick Tower; an area then, in decline. He had seen the real addicts, the violence and crime that followed like disease a plague carrier. Sören, like most of the men here, was a recreational user, sensible enough not to go too far. But that he had to use anything at all, was a shame. With Maglor, he had needed nothing.

Vanimórë turned away and began to dance, fitting the moves of his hips to the beat of the music. The technique was so ingrained in him he no longer thought about it. He had had to dance well to please his masters and so, under lash and blow and command he had learned to dance well. His hips shimmied in short, sharp bursts, though there were no flowing chains to ring a counterpoint. If he closed his eyes, shut out the music, he could see in memory the fire-shot halls of Angband, the black chambers of Barad-dûr...

He _felt_ the eyes on his back, or rather, on his hips. Sören’s gaze was like a brand against bare skin. The young man might conceal his gifts but to one who could sense it he was as a bonfire in the room. _A bonfire, a beacon-fire, a balefire._ The link was there. Written in love on one side, and hate on the other. _Will he know, I wonder_?

Slowly, Vanimórë turned.

 _Yes, beauty, come to me._ He hid his thoughts (which Sören would certainly ‘hear’) behind mental walls, crooked a finger, smiling. _Come._

Sören, rather adorably, looked surprised, gestured to himself, mouthing: ‘Me?’

Vanimórë nodded, resisting the urge to laugh. Who else? Sören danced over. He _was_ a beauty: those eyes, that mouth, those lovely curls. The bones of his face, the depths in his eyes, like the plunge of the sea into unmeasured deeps, proclaimed both his heritage and the hidden power which had found so much expression in art and, now, slumbered under the black fog of depression.

 _Well, beauty, I wish I had more time with thee, but I will give thee pleasure, I vow it._ And he was anticipating those few hours, to have this man under him, to be within him, making him beg and fall apart under hands and mouth and possession. But cherishing him too, treating him how he deserved to be treated.

His own experiences of rape and pain, of being used like a camp whore, less, like a slave, had ensured Vanimórë treat his own lovers very differently. From his young days among the Eastern tribes, armed with the determination that he was not the sum of rape, that he was himself and would (could) get pleasure in sex, he had asked men and women both what they wanted, what made them feel good, what brought them to orgasm. He listened, he learned, and he remembered. Not everyone was the same, which was why it was important to know what worked for the individual. And even then, they might want different flavours of sex at different times, depending on mood. Sometimes one could not know until the bedchamber. After battle it could be fast and brutal, a clash of warriors; at other times it was a slow glide into abandonment. And everything in between. Whichever it was, Vanimórë could and did hold himself back until his partner gained their pleasure. It was not an onerous task, but something he enjoyed. With Maglor in Barad-dûr it had been rather different: an onslaught of passion to rekindle a flame he feared might be dying. Impulse? In the same way, he had acted fast to save Claire from Thuringwethil’s poison. Impulse. He hid a wry grimace.

Claire might eventually forgive him, but Maglor’s hatred was as fiery as his response had been. Vanimórë had accepted that. It mattered not at all what Maglor thought of him as long as he was alive. And the sex, shot through with hate had been...transcendent. Things had changed between them, as recent events showed, but the hate was still there, smouldering. Vanimórë did not care about that either, it was an...interesting seasoning.

This was not the same. He did not intend to use force. Sören, by the signals he was sending out, was not uninterested. That might be partly the coursing of the drug through his body, or his determination not to end the night alone (as if _anyone_ here would not want him) but what happened between them would not be rape.

Smile deepening, he drew his hands down over Sören’s chest, slid them down his waist, to his hips. It was not an inappropriate touch: most of the men in the club were here to find a partner for the night, or part of the night, if they did not already have them. It was all that Sören was expecting. The thought angered Vanimórë and he imagined silk sheets and wine and candles and oil and nights that unfurled hour upon hour in heat and hunger.

He traced the muscles under the warm silk of the shirt, moved them slowly back to the hard loops that pierced Sören’s nipples.  
‘I’ve been watching you all evening,’ he murmured. _Watching thee for a long time. And I could spend from dusk till dawn with thee, until thou couldst not stand unaided, and were drained dry of seed. I would find out everything that arouses thee, that melts thee into a mess of need and I would meet that need and match it and draw thee into the birth of stars._

As it was, he only had a few short hours. He regretted it; Sören was not one to just have and leave. He was tempted to allow the contact lenses to fade, to let those hours weave into daybreak and beyond — but it was not the time or place. _Not yet._

__I will make thee feel those hours, and thou shalt not feel used. This I swear._ _

__

 

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OooOooO

 

 

 

 

They walked from the club, the air refreshing after the close heat. Vanimórë’s hotel was not so far away and the night was dry after an earlier shower of rain. He half expected, even now, that Sören might change his mind. But the drug was still working; he both expected and wanted sex.

_But sex, without passion, without care, without meaning, is not what thou doth truly want._

Vanimórë stopped, turned Sören to face him, drew him into a kiss. ‘You are lovely. Don’t rate yourself so cheap.’

On the edge of a pool of lamplight, Sören’s eyes widened. ‘I don’t think I’m _cheap._ ’ A trace of anger there, good. ‘And you sound as if you’re going to preach morality at me, which, considering you picked _me_ up—‘

Vanimórë laughed softly. ‘Oh no, Sören, I never pick up cheap goods. But you know you are worth more than a quick fuck.

Sören visibly wavered between the simmer of his indignation and the compliment. The stiffness went out of his shoulders with a sigh.  
‘You don’t know,’ he began. Then: ‘Why did you?’

‘Pick you up? I am a connoisseur of rare and precious objects.’ He laughed out at Sören’s expression.

‘It’s just how the club scene works,’ Sören was regarding him with a faint frown. ‘Don’t you know that? I thought...but it’s not exactly your scene, is it?’

‘Why would you say that?’

‘I’m not sure. In the club you looked the part, almost, but the more I look at you now...’ He let the words fade.

‘I’m not gay, if that is what you’re asking.’ As Sören drew a breath: ‘Pansexual, I suppose you would call it.’ He leaned closer. ‘And I have seen and done — and had done to me — everything you can imagine. Everything.’

A chill little breeze whispered down the street but the night seemed full of heat. A car hissed past, lights fading. Twining a loose curl of Sören’s hair about his fingers, Vanimórë kissed the soft lips again.

‘What are you thinking?’ Sören whispered.

‘Of you,’ Vanimórë replied truthfully. _What does one do with a person one never wishes to die? Well, I made them into_ Khadakhir.  
But, save for Claire, he had always _asked_ them if they wanted immortality, and Sören would think him a complete madman if he spoke of such things. Neither was it relaxing post-coital conversation.  
Yet.  
_Of you, Sören, a beacon-fire lit in the night_

Would Maglor sense this night to come? Would it draw him from the land he had fled to?

Sören smiled. ‘Is your hotel far?’

‘Not far, beauty.’ Vanimórë took his hand. ‘Come.’

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
